


Seeing Ghosts

by SunflowerSupreme



Series: Witcher (Games) [2]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Survivor Guilt, the game did not do Dandelion and Geralt’s reunion justice so I rewrote it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-01-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:40:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22217194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunflowerSupreme/pseuds/SunflowerSupreme
Summary: After his return to life, Geralt meets an old friend in Vizima.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Witcher (Games) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1599313
Comments: 4
Kudos: 92





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Spoilers for the Witcher game (the first one) and the end of the books I guess?**
> 
> Basically Geralt got murdered at the end (of the books) and when he came back to life (after five years) he didn’t have any memory and that's where the game started. 
> 
> Was I the only one who was really, really disappointed by [Geralt and Dandelion's reunion in the Witcher game?](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q09XkIqTIX0)

Vizima, in the height of the plague, was a horrible place to be.

Geralt didn’t have anything to compare it to - although he was certain he’d been there before, he couldn’t remember it - but even then, he found it horrible. He couldn’t wait to leave, and not just because he couldn’t wait to be done with the Salamandra investigation. Hopefully, that would bring him one step closer to finding out what had happened to him.

The first time he heard his name - a distant cry of _‘Geralt!’_ \- he shook his head and told himself that he must be imagining it.

He kept walking, his cat’s eyes scanning the crowd. But there was no sign of a speaker.

“Geralt!” That time, he was certain he heard it, but he gave no sign. It wasn’t a familiar voice, and if it wasn’t Zoltan or Shani (the only two people in the city that he was at least somewhat certain he could trust) then he wasn’t interested. There were too many people that were out to kill him.

“Geralt of Rivia- come back here you horse’s ARSE!”

The Witcher finally stopped, looking back over his shoulder. Most of the people on the street were going about their own business, barely looking up at the sound of shouting. But there was one- Geralt did a double-take.

The man racing toward him, was quite possibly the strangest person he’d ever seen. He had dark hair, held back from his head by a leather cord, and his outfit was made of a plethora of different fabrics, all entirely different textures and patterns, although mostly in muted blue and red. Bouncing over his shoulder was a lute.

The unfamiliar minstrel finally reached him, panting slightly and out of breath from the chase. He wasted no time in grabbing Geralt’s shirt, then running his hands over the Witcher’s shoulders, as if checking that he was real. With the man so close, Geralt could easily smell the alcohol on his breath.

Although highly tempted to pull out a blade, Geralt contented himself with just shoving the man away. “I- Geralt! Geralt what are-” The musician stumbled back. Geralt hadn’t hit him too hard, so the shove must have caught him off guard. _Interesting_ , thought the Witcher. _He thought I’d be alright with being grabbed_. _Either that, or he’s just soused_.

“Do I know you?” He would be surprised, because he clearly knows a lot of people. He just can’t place how - or why - he would know such a strange and flamboyant man.

The man’s face fell, almost comically. _That expression_ \- Geralt thought - _ought to be only allowed on very cute children or puppies_. _Not full-grown men_.

“You- you really don’t remember _anything_?”

“No.”

“Zoltan said you had memory problems, but I- I thought you couldn’t possibly have forgotten _me_.”

“I remember nothing.”

The minstrel looked around, as though expecting an answer to jump out at him from the side streets. When nothing came, he adjusted his lute, straightened his shirt, and held out his hand to Geralt. “The great Dandelion, at your service.”

Geralt didn’t take the proffered hand. “I thought we’d already met. That’s what you said.” 

“We have! At a fête in Gulet, but-” Dandelion - and that topped the list of the strangest names he’d ever heard - shrugged, pulling his hand back awkwardly. “Ah, look Geralt- uh, how about I treat you to a drink?”

“Why?”

“You must have questions! And well, if it hadn’t been Zoltan who said they’d seen you, I would never have believed it. Never! But I-”

“You’re still not certain I’m real.”

“I’ve had a bit to drink,” he confessed, shrugging and fiddling with his lute strap again.

“I can smell it,” Geralt promised.

Dandelion almost looked as though he expected Geralt to say something - should he scold him? Is that what he would have done? - but when no such reaction came, he said, “Please, Geralt, let me treat you to a drink.”

“I’m working.”

“Perhaps I could help you! I know a lot of people! What is it you’re looking for?”

“Why should I trust you?”

Again, Dandelion seemed crestfallen. “I- Geralt, I’m your _friend_." He paused, then quickly said, "I'll tell you what, I’ll help you, but you don’t have to tell me what I’m helping with.”

Geralt looked at the man and sighed. Something told him he wasn’t going to get rid of him very easily. “A drink it is,” he said, and Dandelion’s face lit up. “I’d like to know about my so-called _death_.”

“It wasn’t so-called,” Dandelion said, hurrying off down the street, clearly expecting Geralt to follow him. With a sigh, the Witcher strode after him. “I was there, Geralt. It was a very real, very _dead_ , death.” He shivered at just the mention of it. If he was acting, he was doing a very good job of it.

“How’d I die?”

“We were drinking - ah, all of us - the Hansa - oh, you don’t know who that is, do you?”

“No.”

“You, me, Zoltan, Yarpen, Cahir, Milva, Angouleme, and Regis- ah, Regis wasn’t there.”

Clearly he expected a reaction to the names, but Geralt only nodded. “Uh-huh.”

“We were sitting in a tavern, drinking, eating - I suppose you don’t care what we were eating? There was a riot, people came to kill the non-humans, and you- you thought you could frighten them off! I should have stopped you, I’ve replayed the scene a thousand times in my mind I-” His voice grew faster and more agitated the longer he spoke. Then he stopped, sighed, and almost whispered, “You were stabbed with a pitchfork. There was nothing we could do.” Dandelion shivered, clutching the strap of his lute.

“And you buried me?”

“Well, no, not exactly.” Dandelion shrugged, scratching at his hair, then patting it down, as though afraid he’d messed it up. “We put you in a boat, there was a unicorn-”

“How drunk are you, bard?”

“Not too drunk to remember the worst night of my life,” grumbled the minstrel.

“It sounds more like a ballad than the truth, and I’ve heard mention of you. They say you spin great tales-”

“Yes, I lie in ballads, Geralt! But I wouldn’t lie to you!” He stopped, then nodded to a door. “There’s the tavern,” he said softly. “Have a seat, I’ll order.”


	2. Chapter 2

Dandelion pushed Geralt to a chair, then hurried up to the bartender, ordering food and drinks for them both. Once he had the glasses in his hands, he hurried back to the Witcher.

When he sat a tankard in front of him, Geralt sniffed it suspiciously before drinking it. _I didn’t poison it!_ He wanted to yell, but he stayed silent, sipping his own wine.

He couldn’t take his eyes off the Witcher. He was afraid if he blinked the man in front of him might vanish entirely. When Zoltan had approached him and told him what he’d seen, he’d been certain the dwarf had been wrong. Dandelion had been more than a few beers in at that point and had shouted several, rather rude things, mostly accusing the dwarf of lying and his wife of being a whore.

When he’d finally sobered up, he’d found a letter from Zoltan in his rented room, swearing that it had been the truth. So he’d gone looking. He hadn’t expected to find Geralt, not really. And to think that his friend had forgotten him- he shivered. 

It was Geralt that broke the silence that had fallen between them, “Is Dandelion really your name?”

“Why do you ask?”

Geralt gave him a meaningful look.

The poet frowned, tapping his finger against his glass thoughtfully.“Well- I mean- if you feel that way about it- you can always call me Julian-” He could count on one hand the number of times that Geralt - his Geralt, the one that remembered him and would never accuse him of trying to poison him - had called him Julian. It had always been in jest.

Yellow eyes studied him, and Dandelion thought he might have seen a flicker of guilt on the Witcher’s face. “Dandelion it is.”

“I’m glad.” He smiled and took another sip.

Geralt watched him impassionately. “I’d prefer you didn’t get drunk if you’re going to be answering my questions.” 

Dandelion sat his glass down hesitantly. He was aware enough - and honest enough (at least with himself) - to admit he’d been drinking a lot recently. For the last five years specifically.

“How much have you had?” the Witcher pressed. Once, Geralt would have asked that with a hint of compassion, a nudge that Dandelion was going to have regrets come morning. But at that moment, it was clear he only cared about getting his information.

“I’m sober enough to answer any of your questions and drunk enough not to lie,” he promised. After a moment’s thought, he pushed the glass toward Geralt and called for a waiter to bring him tea instead. Then he propped his elbows on the table, lacing his fingers together and resting his chin on them. “What can I tell you?”

“Who are you to me?” Cold, calculating, inquisitive yet impersonal. Dandelion didn’t like it.

“Once, you would have called me your dearest friend. We traveled together a great deal.”

“Dandelion,” the Witcher said, glancing at him, running his eyes up and down the poet as though measuring him. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you- you’re no companion for a Witcher. You’re no fighter unless you’re hiding a lot of muscles under- uh, that.”

“Clothes, Geralt, clothes,” he said dryly. “Or as you would call them, _ridiculous frippery_.”

“That does sound like something I would say.” There was almost the hint of a smile on the Witcher’s face. Then he frowned. “Why are you in a plague city?”

“Why is anyone in a plague city? I can’t leave. Quarantined. Besides, I’m immune.”

“You are?”

“Well, I haven’t caught it yet, have I?”

“That-” Geralt shook his head. “That’s terrible logic.”

Dandelion shrugged. “I’ve been in worse. I survived the Small Pox epidemic, remember, you- oh, never mind, you wouldn’t remember that.”

“Tell me.”

“There was an outbreak here, about- oh, twenty-five years ago,” Dandelion said softly. He tilted his head, watching Geralt carefully for any sign of recognition.

“What happened?”

“I caught it. You took me to a healer, saved me.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow. “You followed me on the Path because of a _life debt_?”

“What?” Dandelion shook his head quickly. “Oh, Geralt- no! We were already friends, Geralt. We have been since- well, I suppose you did save my life when we met.”

“How’d we meet?”

Dandelion would have blushed if he was at all capable of feeling embarrassment. “Do you want the ballad or the truth?”

Yellow eyes narrowed. “The truth.” 

“I ah- Geralt? You- you won’t think poorly of me for this, will you? You’ve not been reincarnated as a prude, I mean?”

“Dandelion, spit it out.”

The poet shrugged. “I knocked up a girl, her brothers wanted to geld me and cover me in pitch and sawdust, but you, my friend, although a perfect stranger, saved me.”

“Sounds like I saved your cock, not your life.”

“That’s the same thing, isn’t it?”

Geralt choked on his drink.

Dandelion leaned back and picked at his fingernails, forcing himself not to stare at Geralt any longer.

Finally, Geralt broke the silence for him. “I should be going.”

“Going?” Dandelion’s head shot up. “Going where?”

“I’m….. Working on something.”

“I could help!”

“Sober up first," growled the Witcher. "And I'll consider it." But something in his tone said that he didn't want Dandelion, sober or not. 

Watching Geralt stand and walk out of the bar, watching his friend - who, by all accounts, ought to still be dead - walk away from him, was almost more than he could stand. Dandelion pushed himself to his feet, determined to follow after Geralt, but the drink he’d had caught up with him, and he stumbled, swearing.

“Geralt!”

But the Witcher was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Dandelion with Small Pox](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22123543)


End file.
